by Patti Berg
A light, cool mist had rolled in from the Pacific, but when she crossed the lawn she could feel the heat of his eyes watching her from the kitchen. Even as she walked down the stairs and along the beach she could sense him thinking of her, just as she was thinking of him, as if there was some odd connection between them, something that had drawn them together.
Trevor Montgomery was a womanizer. Trevor Montgomery was a drunk. Trevor Montgomery might have brutally murdered a woman, stabbing and slashing her again and again.
Trevor Montgomery was in her home.
Trevor Montgomery could easily murder her, too.
She slumped down to the sand, drew her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them as she watched the fog-shrouded sun sink into the ocean.
She thought about Captain Caribe romancing his lady love, wrapping her in pearls and rubies and chains of gold that he’d pulled from a long-buried chest. She thought of the riverboat gambler who’d lost thousands of dollars but laughed in the face of defeat. She thought of the sheik riding across the blazing sands on a midnight stallion while kissing the woman he held in his arms.
Those were the things she remembered when she thought of Trevor Montgomery. His laughter, his smile. His smoldering eyes when he looked at his woman.
Too many other people thought of those horrid photos of Carole Sinclair’s body and the way Trevor Montgomery, a suspected murderer, had disappeared. Too many other people had forgotten the happiness he’d brought to millions in his swashbucklers, his romantic comedies, his emotion-packed dramas. They wanted to remember the bad. They’d sensationalized his name, his life. The good was long-forgotten.
But she remembered his laughter, his passion, and his tenderness when he kissed his lover.
Lightly she touched her mouth, remembering the heat of his kiss, remembering how wonderful his lips had felt.
His caress wasn’t the touch of a killer.
She wanted to believe.
She needed to believe.
oOo
Trevor lay in bed with his arms folded under his head and stared into the dark, wondering when Adriana would return. He hadn’t heard her come up from the beach. He hadn’t heard her drive away, but several hours before, he noticed that her car was gone. He wondered if she planned to stay away the rest of the night, or come back and erase the loneliness he felt in her absence.
And he wondered if she thought of him, just as he thought constantly about her.
She didn’t like to eat. She rarely laughed, and she definitely didn’t like to be touched, but she’d responded to his kiss when they’d been in the water. She’d kept that sweet mouth of hers closed, but he’d sensed her wanting to open up and let him taste her completely. He’d never forced a woman. Most women came to him easily, begging for more and more. Only a fool would have said no.
And he hadn’t been a fool.
Until now.
Did Adriana have any idea what she was doing to him? Did she know that her warm blue eyes were melting his frozen heart? Did she know that her innocence scared the hell out of him? He hadn’t been around sweetness since he was a child. Hell, he doubted he’d been around it then. His childhood was a memory he tried to forget, and when he couldn’t, he’d drown it with liquor; his recent past—Carole’s death—was something he’d like to forget, too. And while he was at it, he’d like to forget what life would be like if he was whisked back through time. His past was over.
For the first time in a long time, he wanted to think of the future.
He wanted to think of Adriana. About the blond hair that fell soft and sleek over her cheeks, hiding too much of the slenderness and beauty of her face. About the fullness of her pale pink lips that didn’t smile often enough. About her long, slim body and the fact that he wanted to strip off her clothes, taste those nearly nonexistent breasts and caress the nicest bottom he’d ever seen. He wanted to know why she backed away from his touch, why she hated his drinking, why she lived in his home, and why she’d called him across sixty years of time.
He’d never shared his secrets with anyone. He didn’t plan to do it now, but he felt that the sheer power of her innocence could erase all his nightmares.
Closing his eyes, he willed himself to dream of Adriana’s kiss, her eyes, the sweetness of her voice.
He still wasn’t sure if he believed in God, but he thanked some higher power for sending him to Adriana, for giving him some reason to change his life.
Chapter 8
Adriana stood in the doorway of Trevor’s bedroom, watching in horror as he thrashed around in the bed, unconsciously rubbing the sheets as if he were trying, in vain, to wipe something from his hands.
Was it Carole’s blood he was trying to rid himself of? Had he murdered her? Oh, how she wished she knew the truth. She wondered if Trevor knew what had happened, or if not remembering was just an act, another role he played so well.
Hesitantly she neared the bed, her desire to run away hampered by her desire to help. He looked tormented and frightened. Damp strands of hair clung to his feverish face, and without thought for what was right or wrong, she stroked her cool hand over his brow.
“Carole!”
He seized her wrist and she attempted to struggle, but he held her tight.
“Carole!”
“Let go,” she begged, trying to wrench free of his tightening grasp. “Please, Trevor. Let go. It’s Adriana. Not Carole.”
He jerked up in bed. Panic filled his eyes as he stared at his hand around her wrist.
Releasing his hold, he plowed his fingers into his hair and lowered his head as if he were trying to suppress a terrible ache. “I’ve hurt you again, haven’t I?” he whispered.
“You didn’t mean to,” she said through trembling lips. She lightly touched her already-bruised wrists, hoping there was truth in her statement. “You thought I was Carole.”
“You’re nothing at all like Carole,” he said, raising his head to gaze into her eyes. “You’re not like any of the women I’ve known.”
“You don’t know me at all.”
“I want to,” he said softly, his mesmerizing voice almost enough to make her give him anything he wanted.
But she was too afraid to let him know her completely. She was afraid to have him in her house, afraid of his nightmares, afraid of his drinking. And she was afraid of his passion, his smoldering eyes, and his charming smile.
She backed toward the door, needing to get away from him, but Trevor might as well still be holding on to her wrists for all the power in his eyes.
“Stay with me,” he pleaded. “Please.”
‘I can’t.”
“I won’t hurt you.”
“I don’t know that for sure.”
“I’m not a killer.”
“You were calling out Carole’s name. You were trying to wipe something—like blood—from your hands. I want to believe you’re innocent, but...”
“I am innocent!”
Trevor tore off the covers and climbed from the bed, dressed only in a white undershirt and boxers. He crossed the room in just a few short strides, and when he reached out to touch her cheek, she backed into the hall.
He stood in the doorway, staring at her in the dark. “I need you to believe that I didn’t kill anyone. I couldn’t have.”
“But you don’t know for sure.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I know you don’t want to see a doctor, but I think you should. You need help.”
“What I need is you.”
“I can’t help you. I thought I could, but I’ve been wrong.”
“I’ve been wrong about a lot of things in my life, too,” he said, again pressing his fingers to his temples.
“God, I need a drink. Where did you hide the whiskey?”
“You don’t need it.”
“I’m not in the mood for any more lectures.”
He brushed past her and stalked down the hallway toward the living room. She ran after him, watching him t
hrow open cupboards.
“Where did you hide it?” he asked again.
Adriana refused to answer, and he glared at her, finally stalking from the living room, through the dining room, and into the kitchen.
Adriana followed, standing in the kitchen door as he searched for the liquor.
“Drinking won’t solve your problems,” she said calmly, even though her heart and mind were pounding with fear. He was acting like a madman, tearing open cabinet doors.
“Nothing’s going to solve my problems, but at least I might be able to forget.”
“Drinking’s what made you forget everything in the first place.”
“You don’t know anything about that night.”
“Do you? Do you remember what happened?”
“No. And I don’t ever want to remember. I woke up covered with blood, holding a knife. It’s highly possible I murdered a woman—someone I knew. Someone who didn’t deserve to die. Someone whose death haunts me every second of every day. Is that something you’d want to remember?”
Tears streamed down Adriana’s cheeks. She hadn’t wanted to hear those words. She didn’t want to believe that he’d really been with Carole that night. She wanted to believe he was innocent. “Tell me you didn’t do it. Please.”
“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? I don’t remember that night. I don’t remember anything at all.” He stared at her, ignoring her tears, her fright.
“Where’s the whiskey?”
He was acting just as her father had each time she’d hidden his gin. She didn’t want to go through that again. She couldn’t.
With the back of her hand she wiped away the tears, and told him the same thing she’d told her father time and time again. “Getting drunk won’t help.”
“Don’t preach.”
“Please.”
“Don’t beg, either.”
She glared at him, not caring that tears continued to stream down her face. Her father had yelled. Her father had ignored her. Why should Trevor Montgomery be any different?
She ran to her bedroom and pulled three bottles from the bottom of her lingerie drawer, then turned around and faced the crazy man she knew was standing in her doorway.
“Drink it. Drink all of it,” she shouted. “Fall down flat on your face if that’s what you want. Then get out of my house and don’t come back.”
Trevor stared at her as if giving her ultimatum some thought, then he crossed the room, grabbed one of the bottles and twisted off the cap. He swigged a long gulp, then another.
He braced a hand on the dresser, not once turning around to look at her. “Do you really want me to leave?” he asked.
She didn’t need to be involved with another alcoholic. Once in a lifetime was more than enough.
“I don’t have time for a drunk.”
Slowly he turned, his reddened eyes, the slight waver of his voice, the slump of his shoulders defining an overwhelming sadness. “You’re sure?”
“Very sure.”
“Then I’ll get out of here in the morning. As soon as it’s light.”
“Just get out of my room now. Please.”
He tilted the bottle and took another sip, but his gaze never left Adriana’s tear-streaked cheeks.
“I’m sorry things had to turn out this way,” he said
“But not sorry enough to do anything about it.”
She’d hoped he’d be different, nothing at all like her father. She’d wanted to believe in Trevor. So many things were good and right about him, but too many other things were wrong.
Having him around brought back the unhappy memories of a father who hadn’t cared, who believed most everything good in life was a sin, who thought liquor was more important than his only child.
“I never should have wished for your return,” she said sadly.
“No, I suppose you shouldn’t have.”
Slowly he stepped into the hall. When she heard his footsteps at the opposite end, she closed and locked her bedroom door, afraid that he might return.
And then, again, she was afraid he wouldn’t.
She didn’t know how long she stood there crying. She’d thought she could help, but she knew the only one who could help Trevor Montgomery was himself.
She heard the front door open and close. She heard the garage door open.
Oh, God! Was he going to get in the car? She didn’t want to help any longer, but she couldn’t allow him to drive while he was drinking.
She rushed out of the house, stopping at the edge of the hedges when she saw him standing beside the Duesenberg, smoothing his fingers over the green and yellow paint. The opened bottle of whiskey was gripped in his tightened fist, as if he were holding on to a lifeline.
Turning slowly, he leaned against the automobile and looked toward the back of the house, toward Adriana’s bedroom window.
She watched him raise the bottle to his lips then hesitate, as if giving serious thought to his actions. But the thinking didn’t last long. He must have decided drinking was the most important thing at the moment. He tilted it again to his mouth.
Suddenly, he hurled the bottle across the drive. It crashed on the patio, and liquor and glass sprayed everywhere.
A dog barked somewhere down the street. Another began to howl.
And Trevor stood silent and still, staring off into the dark.
A cool wind breezed across the yard, shaking the palms, the rosebushes. Adriana rubbed her arms for warmth. She should go inside, leave him alone and let him work out his problems. But she couldn’t leave, she couldn’t stop watching. She was afraid he’d disappear if she let him out of her sight.
Where could he go, though? He had no other home, no one to take him in. Besides, he wasn’t dressed for a drive around town or anywhere else.
She laughed to herself, wondering again why she even cared.
Finally he moved, climbing into the front seat of the Duesenberg. He leaned back against the soft green leather, but he didn’t start the car. More than likely he didn’t have the keys.
She walked quietly to the patio, her bare feet cold on the terra-cotta tiles. She pulled a multicolored serape from one of the chairs, wrapped it around her shoulders, and sat down. Surely he wouldn’t stay out all night. Surely he’d get tired and go inside to bed.
She yawned, thinking how crazy it was for her to be outside watching him, worrying about him. She should be inside, in her bed, where it was warm and comfortable.
Several hours must have gone by before the sun peeked over the hills to the east. Adriana’s joints ached from the cool, damp air. She stretched and rubbed her eyes, looking across the lawn to the garage.
Trevor was still behind the wheel, his head still resting against the soft green leather.
Gathering the serape about her, she walked to the side of the car and looked down at the sleeping man. His cheeks and chin were rough with whiskers, the skin below his eyes was puffy and dark. He hadn’t drunk that much, and for just a moment Adriana wondered if he might have been crying?
It didn’t seem possible. He was Trevor Montgomery. The Trevor Montgomery, a man who knew no fear, who laughed in the face of danger. Could a man like that possibly cry?
Lightly, she touched his shoulder. “Wake up, Trevor. Come inside and have some coffee.”
His eyelids twitched, opening slowly. A halfhearted smile touched his lips. “Do you plan to sober me up completely before you kick me out on the street?” he asked, the smile turning to a grin.
“Against my better judgment, I’m not kicking you out.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to give it a little more thought?”
Adriana shook her head. She’d thought about it before she fell asleep. She’d thought about letting him stay the moment he’d thrown the bottle. He was a troubled man with a troubled past, and he was probably going to bring even more trouble into her life. But tossing the bottle was proof that he wanted to try and change. If he could try, she figured she could try to help h
im.
She opened the car door and he stepped out. They were the perfect fodder for gossip, he in his underwear, she in a short, flimsy silk gown. This is how trouble begins, she thought, and she wasn’t just thinking about gossip, she was thinking about her feelings, about how good he looked fully dressed or nearly naked. And she thought about the way her heart was beating wildly within her chest.
Trevor Montgomery was definitely trouble, so she decided to do what she’d always done where men were involved. She’d back away.
“Thank you for not making me leave,” he said, and doing what seemed so much a natural part of him, he reached out to touch her cheek.
Adriana avoided his touch, walking briskly toward the house. She would help, but she wouldn’t get too close. That was the only way this would work. She’d help him establish a new life, a new identity. Once he was able to take care of himself, she’d back even farther away—if she could.
When they reached the house, she went straight to the shower and turned the water to hot, letting it pulsate over her body while she cursed herself for making another mistake. Why was she letting her emotions get involved. She was a businesswoman. She was smart. She was logical. But she hadn’t used her brain or her logic where Trevor Montgomery was concerned. She’d just let him enter her house and disrupt her life.
And she had more emotions coursing through her right now than she’d ever had.
She felt happy.
Of course, she’d felt happy each time her father sobered up, but those times were few, the moments short. Then he’d drink again. Then he’d get mean.
She hadn’t been able to change her father’s ways. Could she change Trevor’s?
She half expected Trevor to be leaning against her bedroom wall or stretched out on her bed when she came out of the bathroom. Instead, she smelled strong coffee emanating from the kitchen, a hint of cigarette smoke, and she heard his whistling.
The sound was such a treat in her usually quiet house.
She dressed in black-linen trousers with a high waistband that came nearly to her breasts. She wore a billowing white silk blouse, and avoided putting on shoes. They were definitely the bane of a woman’s existence.